"Ouch," I said. "That hurt."

... or something to that effect. 

Somebody, whose name shall remain anonymous, but she is the sole female in our household, had moved a series of binders from their safe place (i.e. on a chair in the basement near the laundry room) to a rather more precarious place (i.e. on the floor, just in front of the laundry room). Their new position meant that anyone carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs in both hands, and unable to switch the lights on with his nose - thus walking in the dark towards said laundry room, ran the risk of stubbing toes on the binders.

Or worse. As I am consistently barefoot in the house, my toes went up one side of the binders and rammed against the metal rings. This caused me to drop the laundry, exclaim loudly that this hurt, and question the sanity of anyone thinking it might be a good idea to leave things in the middle of the floor in a dimly lit and high traffic area.

Fortunately, I escaped with a badly bruised toe, wounded pride, and a telling off from my son who informed me that shouting and swearing was not going to make my foot hurt any less. This, you will understand, did not improve my mood.

I considered looking up the name of the bar in Canada that serves a sour toe cocktail. But realized that might be overdoing it. Instead, I broke my self-imposed drinking ban to pour myself a very large whisky and sat in the armchair all evening with my foot in a bucket of iced water.